Sick Leave
by PartHeart
Summary: Jac Naylor needs a painkiller. Ficlet. CN: Drug abuse and suggestion of suicidal ideation.


A small gap in the drawn curtains is the only source of natural light in the room. From her supine position on the sofa she can see tiny specs drift and dance in the beam of light, before they come to rest on the furniture, joining an already thick layer of dust. The room is stuffy and the air is stagnant but getting up to open the window feels like an insurmountable task.

She hasn't been outside in days. The shelves in her fridge are bare, and there's not much in her cupboards either, so she's been going hungry. She ordered pizza on Thursday and the box, containing only the greasy remnants, has been sat on the coffee table ever since. If she thinks about it, shoving a £20 note in the deliveryman's direction and telling him to keep the change (to save her from having to partake in unnecessary small talk while watching him fumble over his coins) was one of the last form of human interaction she's had.

The 4 weeks holiday she'd been pressganged into taking has come to an end. Emma is with Maconie, visiting Scottish relatives. She hadn't wanted her to go, however Jonny had insisted. In the end she hadn't had the energy to put up much of a fight. Caring for her daughter was exhausting, particularly on top of the pain, but she gave her a purpose. She misses her.

She reaches for her phone, grunting as the movement sends a wave of fire searing across her back. There's a handful of notifications presented on the lock screen for her attention. 3 texts from Fletcher, as well as 2 missed calls. Sacha has tried to call her 4 times since yesterday. There's numerous texts from him as well, begging she gets in touch. She swipes the notifications away, opens up photos and scrolls through the images she has of Emma.

It's increasingly difficult to distinguish the days from each other. Time doesn't feel linear anymore, and she can't get her head around it. Sometimes, each second is a millennium. Other times all she needs to do is blink and then time jumps, and hours have passed without her noticing. With nothing to punctuate her days she's given up trying to give track.

Occupational health declaring her unfit for work had been the proverbial straw that broke her already tortured back. If she's too sick to work, then what is her worth? The pain no longer serves any purpose. It's futile. A plan starts to form. She envisaged that getting hold of some would be a near impossible struggle. That's why she'd acted on impulse; half hoping, and definitely expecting, she'd fail. But it had been absurdly easy. Her title opens doors and getting a party-pack of diamorphine from an uninitiated pharmacist is akin to stealing candy from a baby.

The OH appointment and the journey to and from the hospital had left her in agony. Her resolve wavers and flickers and then is gone. A fire has gone out.

Her life now, for the most part, is this one room. It is the inane babble of daytime TV. The sofa, which has yielded to form an imprint of her back under the pressure of her near-perpetual presence. Utter solitude. The pain confines her. It keeps her prisoner and taunts her with memories of who she used to be. Sure, pain is a reminder to never let your guard down, but now she has nothing left to protect.

It's like she's not really there as she goes through the actions. She's watching herself from the outside, a bystander to her own life.

She sits herself down on the sofa. On the coffee table in front of her she's neatly laid out everything she needs. It's clinical and clean. Just another medical procedure.

She turns the TV off and secures the elasticated tourniquet around her upper arm. She tilts her head, appraising her median cubital vein, then reaches for an antiseptic swab and wipes clean the antecubital fossa of her left arm in silence. She's works deftly and methodically and it's not long before everything is ready.

Without hesitation she plunges the needle into her arm then lies down, sinking back into the sofa, letting it swallow her up. Once in her vascular system it will be a matter of seconds before the drug reaches her opioid receptors. She lets her arm hang like a deadweight off the sofa. The needle falls from her hand and rolls onto the floor then under the table. A wave of relief washes over her.

Finally, release.


End file.
